


Sweet the Sting

by misura



Category: Constantine (2005)
Genre: Hurt John, Hurt John Constantine, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-25 05:28:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21790831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misura/pseuds/misura
Summary: Balthazar finds a surprise in his boardroom.
Relationships: Balthazar/John Constantine
Comments: 12
Kudos: 78
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	Sweet the Sting

**Author's Note:**

  * For [xpityx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xpityx/gifts).



About the last thing Balthazar expects to find in his nice, clean boardroom is John Constantine, bleeding all over the nice, clean carpet, and yet here he is. By way of a birthday present, it's a little early.

By way of a joke from one of his 'allies', it's a bit tasteless.

"Come now," Balthazar says, walking in, wondering what the play is here. "Constantine? Really?"

John's head lolls back very convincingly as Balthazar grabs his hair and the look in his eyes as he glares at Balthazar is very authentic, too. Whoever's set this up must know Constantine pretty well - but then, down below and up here, who doesn't?

"This is Constantine," Balthazar whispers in the fake Constantine's ear. "John Constantine, asshole." He's a little turned on, even though he knows this isn't real, and a lot pissed off for that same reason.

Actually having John here, hurt and weak and at his mercy - well, that would be something, wouldn't it? That would be _fun_.

This, on the other hand, is just pathetic. He's not even in a mood to play anymore, to see if he can nudge any of his employees into a suicide or murder or even just a small theft, a few drinks, a well-deserved punch in the face or push down the stairs.

His hands are moving already - whatever, whoever this is, a broken neck is seriously going to cramp their style, and then the fake John reaches up a hand (Balthazar feels his mouth water at the smell of blood) and says, "Fuck you, Bally. That's my line," and Balthazar drops his hands.

John's body hits the floor with a thud that makes Balthazar wince. _Careless,_ he chides himself, kneeling down to check if John's still breathing. _Don't break your toys before you've gotten bored with them._

John doesn't say a whole lot after that, so Balthazar gets him some medical aid - a doctor, even, because medical professionals are as susceptible to the blandishments of evil as anyone, and it's not like Balthazar's never had any other toys in need of a bit of patching up.

Not that John qualifies as such ... yet.

Balthazar spends an uncomfortable amount of time watching him - _keeping watch_ over him, he corrects himself. It's about control, after all, about this being John, who's always up to something and who's always got another trick (or a few ampoules of holy water) up his sleeves.

The second thing Balthazar does before the doctor gets there is strip him. The shirt's ruined anyway, though Balthazar notes the brand, the size, in case that information's ever going to be relevant.

John's bloody all over, and without his clothes, there's nothing to mask the smell. Balthazar's practically drooling by the time he's done, even if he generally holds himself above such things, playing the part of a civilized businessman who gets off on emotional anguish as much as simple pain, uncomplicated cruelty.

 _Who are you fooling?_ he thinks, looking at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. His mask is slipping, half-melted away already. He could go back to where John is, do whatever he wants to do to John's body - mutilate it, fuck it, anything he wants. John couldn't do a thing to stop him.

John's also not very likely to actually feel it, though. He's going to lie there and take it, and while Balthazar's come up with several scenarios involving a helpless John, this one kind of fails to appeal.

He wants John to be aware of what's happening, for one. He wants John to know it's Balthazar.

He does not particularly want to need to go shopping for a new bathroom mirror, but then, sometimes, one's impulses get the better of one. At least the smell of his own blood is a bit less distracting than that of John's.

John sleeps like the dead, heavily drugged, and Balthazar broods. Something's going to happen. He knows that much. Once John opens his eyes and becomes John again - _John Constantine, asshole_ , something's going to happen.

What happens, specifically and a bit disappointingly is this:

"Water," John croaks, and Balthazar gives him some, wondering why. To build trust, of course; to be able to slip something into it next time and have John drink it.

He holds up the glass to John's lips, watching John's throat work, his cock half-hard at the feeling of his hands on John's skin.

"Thanks," John says, after, grimacing as if he wants to wash the taste of the word from his mouth.

Balthazar puts down the glass and sits back, toying with one of his coins. "You came to me, Johnny boy."

"I did, didn't I?" John grins, and Balthazar feels something inside of him relax. That grin - that's John. "And you very kindly patched me up, for which you just received my very gracious thanks."

For a man who was croaking for water less than a minute ago, John certainly talks a lot.

"So what's the game, John?" Balthazar watches his coin flash in the light. It will tell him as much as looking at John.

"Now what makes you think there's a game?" John asks. "I got hurt, I decided I didn't want to walk all the way to the ER. Simple. I mean, I die, then what happens? I go down to hell, you think there's not a ton of guys down there wanting a piece of me? Whereas here on earth, well. You tell me."

Balthazar drops his coin. "That's some gamble, Johnny boy." He doesn't say _bullshit_. John's not wrong, exactly, about how it would be, down there.

In theory, sure, Balthazar supposes he should be as happy watching as doing, except - if he had more clout, better connections - but he doesn't. Up here, he's rich and wields some small influence over the local community, but down there, he's nobody. One of the masses.

"What can I say? I like to live dangerously," John says, closing his eyes. "Now, do you mind? I'd like a nap."

Balthazar imagines tying John to the bed and indulging himself. John seems lucid enough to enjoy that, to display a gratifying set of responses to whatever Balthazar decides to do to him.

Instead, he forces himself to walk out of the room, leaving his coin where it's fallen.

When Balthazar gets back, John's long gone, of course. He's taken Balthazar's coin, which is fine, and the shirt Balthazar's bought him, which is fine, too. Balthazar wonders if John's going to wear it, if John's going to fantasize about Balthazar's hands on him every time he puts it on.

He has the carpet in his boardroom replaced with something mauve, then changes his mind and gets one of his employees to hang themselves in there to justify replacing it again.

 _Life as usual,_ Balthazar tells himself, doubling the workload of an employer who's been wanting to get a divorce for almost six weeks now, but won't, because his in-laws would take it very badly.

 _Nothing's changed._ Least of all John Constantine, the bane of his existence, the ray of sunshine in the darkness, the thorn in his side.

"Hey there, Bally."

Balthazar wants to think it's to his advantage that John seems to have a genuine death wish, but instead, it feels kind of unfair. Which should appeal to him, but like all servants of evil, Balthazar prefers the unpleasantness to happen to other people.

One of these days, someone or something really is going to kill John, and Balthazar's going to be bored a little more often.

John's toying with his coin, like that's supposed to mean anything.

"Constantine," Balthazar says, putting a bit of a hiss in his voice as well as a truckload of revulsion.

"Figured I owe you a drink," John says, tossing the coin at him.

Balthazar catches it, feeling his skin burn at the contact. "You dipped it in holy water? Really?" Hardly enough to do any actual damage. Pure pettiness, so typically John.

John shrugs. "Never touch things you picked off of the floor without washing them first. I mean, that's just unhygienic."

 _I really am going to miss you when you're dead,_ Balthazar wants to say, but doesn't. He chuckles, tossing the coin into the gutter.

John scowls, so Balthazar chuckles a bit more, stepping closer to John until he can smell him again. Not a lot of blood now, but there's other things, other smells. "So, Johnny boy. Where are we going?"

Part of him wouldn't have been all that surprised if John had doused him with holy water and sent him down, but instead, all John does is move away a bit and light up a cigarette.

"How about Midnite's?"

Balthazar thinks of all the wonderful fun he might have if he shows up at Midnite's with _the_ John Constantine. People will most definitely talk.

Of course, John knows this. _Oh, John,_ Balthazar thinks, almost fondly, _you think that just because I patched you up, I'm going to go easy on you from here on out?_

John grins at him as if he knows exactly what Balthazar is thinking. "What? Too high-class for you?"

"Midnite's fine," Balthazar says, suppressing a shiver of arousal. "Whatever you want, Johnny boy."

"Right," John says, turning to lead the way.


End file.
